His bowels feel as if they will burst and he knows he should go to the bathroom as she has told him so often.
But he can't walk. He feels like sitting down right there in the kitchen, but it is wrong and she will slap him.
He wants his spinner. If he has his spinner and he watches it going round and round, he will be able to control himself and not make in his pants.
But the spinner is all apart with some of the rings under the table and some under the sink, and the cord is near the stove.
It is very strange that although I can recall the voices clearly their faces are still blurred, and I can see only general outlines.
Dad massive and slumped. Mom thin and quick. Hearing them now, arguing with each other across the years,
I have the impulse to shout at them: "Look at him. There, down there! Look at Charlie. He has to go to the toilet!"
Charlie stands clutching and pulling at his red checkered shirt as they argue over him.
The words are angry sparks between them—an anger and a guilt he can't identify.
"Next September he's going to go back to P.S. 13 and do the term's work over again."
"Why can't you let yourself see the truth? The teacher says he's not capable of doing the work in a regular class."
"That bitch a teacher? Oh, I've got better names for her. Let her start with me again and I'll do more than just write to the board of education.
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